by sound of its petroglyph by waves in our fears such raw indifference. a bit critical so evolved a bit uncertain. wilderness disconnects as pulled out of soul or left at a cliff sullen. to lose self or gain catharses while unfree gnawing at chains. the polite forest those cherries in bloom so much riding on a little butterfly. rinsed but filthy as passing a haven or pausing at a synagogue. eyes brighter feelings deeper while battling five-day flatness. trying to compose trying find self where one admits depression. or times at days where it passes into dormant, some buried instinct. to awaken with it, ushering ‘transmitters, or reminiscing on Freud’s solution. by war of roses or dear deep vows in each person trying to write excellence. dusty particles or PTSD or dramatized by alcoholism. so easy to diagnose a person, so hard to treat a person, I imagine helpers become frustrated. (we fail to include something dear: with many they have a handle on the human condition. they float like dragonflies, they dance ballet, they play in the philharmonic. we see them, as not free from harassments, but apt at combat. they seem to believe in something a bit more effective than mere suffering. indeed, we get jealous or perturbed or like me, we just sit in awe.)
a man was at a lake, he saw his reflection, he identified himself. another fell in love, damned near drowned, while flapping his arms.
back to disconnection, where you want to feel, but something inside desirers muchness—as in revving its engine, such life those years, where a soul was an adolescent. they told of tales where life is tragic. a bit disjunct a bit desensitized, where they say, it only happens to a few. (to realize a steep, plumbless hole, to see many rabbits, while climbing upwards for hours; slipping at points, shifting view-perspectives, analyzed as one going in circles.)
ending
here: how do we keep performance as addictive by Love?
